Mending
by FugueState
Summary: V has survived the Fifth, but nothing is guaranteed. Companion to "Monologue", follows "Apotheosis". Complete.
1. Chapter 1

"You should let yourself rest... you haven't slept in over a day."

Eric Finch looked with mild disapproval at the untouched sandwich on the dresser near Evey. Her vigil over the fallen V hadn't ended since they'd returned from Evey's address - _as_ V - to the people of London. It had been hours.

He regarded the young woman who'd talked him into treason, set loose the explosives that destroyed Parliament, and nearly single-handedly averted one of the worst riots London had ever known. She looked so fragile and unraveled here in the half-light, still wearing the remnants of the vigilante's "uniform"; it was amazing she hadn't collapsed already.

Evey looked up into Finch's concerned expression. Huge dark smudges lurked beneath her eyes and her already-ill-fitting clothes were even more rumpled from having been worn too long. "He might wake up again." She glanced over to V, lying motionless and silent once again on the bed. "He woke up once and he was alone. I almost missed--" She swallowed. She couldn't finish.

Finch nodded in sympathy, but persisted. "And what good will it do if he wakes just in time to see you keel over from exhaustion?"

Evey rubbed briefly at her temples, a grimace distorting her features. He was right, and she knew it. Her hands dropped back into her lap and her head drooped forward into a nod. "All right. I'll sleep. _But_," she added as he made to take her station near the bed, "I'm still staying here."

Finch was nonplussed. "Where will you sleep?"

Evey rose and made her way to the opposite side of the bed. Glancing a challenge at Finch, she settled to the rug-covered floor and closed her eyes.

"You're sleeping there?" She could practically hear his raised eyebrow.

Evey smiled faintly, her eyes still closed. "I've slept in much worse places, Mr. Finch."

.

- - - - - - - - - -

_._

_  
Had it been a dream?_

_He thought he'd heard his own voice, addressing all of London. His voice, and yet not. Familiar words... good words... but not his._

_He'd sensed movement nearby and with a supreme effort, he'd managed to open his eyes. There was Evey - his Evey - dressed in his clothes._

_"... e did it, V... I did what you wanted..."_

_Ahh. She had stepped forward to claim her legacy. He knew she would. How wonderful that he could actually hear her say it._

_He had reached forward, actually touching her. He'd tried to speak... he was sure he'd said something..._

_The moment faded as quickly as it began._

_He still didn't know if he'd dreamed it._

.

- - - - - - - - - -

.

"I think we're ready."

Two bright lamps revealed a collection of blades, probes, and forceps gleaming on a tray near the bed. A large quantity of disinfectant and gauze lay in readiness near a set of fine needles and surgical thread. To Evey, it all managed to look both overwhelming and woefully insufficient.

Finch took a deep breath. "Miss Hammond - could you move that lamp a bit closer?"

She obliged him. "Evey. Please, call me Evey." The faint smile she'd offered him faded and her gaze went faraway. "I've never liked the people who call me 'Miss Hammond', Mr. Finch."

He paused to digest that. "All right, then... _Evey_." He shifted, checking his tools. "But if I'm on a first-name basis with you, the least you could do is drop the 'Mister'." His perpetually sad eyes almost smiled. "Even 'Eric' would do."

Some of the tension left her posture. "All right then... _Eric_." Her mimicry briefly lightened the atmosphere.

Finch considered the task ahead. "I doubt we'll get everything out. I'll try for the worst-looking ones; they're the most likely to get infected."

"Can I help?" She made to move to his side.

"No, you stay there," he warned. "If he wakes up, you need to be the first thing he sees."

Evey considered this, then moved closer to V's side.

Finch returned his attention to finding a good angle to reach the first bullet. "All right - we're set." he gave the man on the bed a cautious glance. "Maybe you should talk to him while I do this."

Evey nodded. She shifted a bit and leaned down, laying a gentle hand on V's shoulder. Moving close, she murmured a steady cadence of soft assurances to the still figure beside her.

.

- - - - - - - - - -

.

_  
She was talking to him again. He tried making out words, but it kept fading out the more he strained to hear. The only way to keep her voice near was to just let it wash over him without concentrating on anything. He would have to make do with only the awareness of tone and rhythm._

_It was so very frustrating. He could tell that some important message was being conveyed; something he needed to know._

_Ah--_

_Pain bloomed slowly into his awareness. Distant, indistinct, but there.  
That must have been the message; a warning. Her voice continued through it, calm and reassuring. He wished he could hear her words. He missed her terribly. Drifting in the darkness, he followed her as best he could with only the faint arcs of pain as landmarks._

.

- - - - - - - - - -

.

"Here. You look like you could use this."

A warm cup was offered, and Finch could smell a faint tang of alcohol in the steam wafting up from it. Gratefully he took a sip and let the drink ease away a bit of the tension from the last few hours.

Evey pulled a chair up next to him and sat heavily. "That was awful."

Finch grunted his assent. "Something I can live without doing ever again."

"Where did you learn to do all that?" Evey was studying him tiredly.

There was a moment of silence. "My wife. She was a nurse." He took another brief sip.

Evey caught the tone in Finch's answer. "May I ask what happened to her?"

Finch looked down into his cup. "St. Mary's." Of course the virus had claimed her - she'd been one of the first ones to treat its victims.

"I'm sorry."

He shook his head. "It's all right." Briefly he looked up to her. "I wasn't the only one to lose someone like that."

She was surprised, briefly, before she remembered his profession. Slowly she nodded in acknowledgment, then returned her attention to V's silent figure before them. She leaned her elbows onto her knees. "I feel... so _lost_." Her hands cradled her head, massaging her temples. Flopping her hands back down, she turned to regard her unexpected companion. "Why do you stay here?"

Finch weighed any number of possible answers. Because he was afraid to go above and find what remained of his life gone. Because he still wanted answers. Because he felt safe here, safer than he'd felt in decades. Ultimately, though... "Because I know I can do some good here."

The tired smile he got in response was like the sun breaking through an overcast sky.

.

- - - - - - - - - -

.

_  
The fire. He was on fire. Burning chemicals seared his lungs and screams shattered the air. Bricks were exploding in the heat surrounding him. Broken spars of steel twisted and glowed orange-hot. This was his fire, the one that had given him his freedom. He'd walked out of it before, the flames barely felt, howling his rage to the heavens, but now... he couldn't move. He was trapped in the inferno, his flesh charring and melting from his bones. The screams filled his head. He was going to die._

.

- - - - - - - - - -

.

"Oh God, V, hold on!"

They were struggling to hold V in place on the bed. In spite of their efforts after Finch's impromptu surgery, V's wounds had become infected and his temperature had skyrocketed in response.

V was thrashing, his incoherent vocalizations raising fears he was hallucinating. Finch and Evey flickered between trying to apply the few cold packs they'd found in the first aid supplies and trying to hold V still so as not to tear his stitches.

"Shhh, V, it's all r--" Evey cried out as his arm flailed up, catching her jaw.

"You all right?" Finch had watched her reel back from the blow.

She rushed back to help, ignoring the pain ringing through one side of her head. "I'm fine. We've got to get his fever down!"

"We're going to have to strap the damn things on at this rate!"

The more their voices rose, the worse V's struggles seemed to become. This thought finally penetrated Evey's thoughts and she motioned to Finch. "Sh! I think he's reacting to us... Eric, we have to stop..." She actually let go of V completely, letting her hands hover over him as she watched his response. Nodding to Finch to follow suit, she saw V's throes were lessening somewhat.

Finch shrugged at Evey, _Now what?_ They couldn't very well get the fever down if they couldn't _touch_ him. But she motioned for him to wait, and slowly moved in close to V's twitching, hallucination-contorted features.

And began to sing.

.

- - - - - - - - - - -

_._

_  
A sound was seeping through the noise scraping through his skull. It was too soft to be heard above the explosions and the cries of the dying, and yet he heard it. The faintest, thinnest thread..._

_'... cried the whole night through.  
Well, you can cry me a river,  
Cry me a river,  
I cried a river over you...'_

_A small, quavering voice, whispering a song he treasured - the tiniest of mercies in this hell. He grasped at that voice with every last bit of strength he possessed, and at last felt oblivion take him._

.

- - - - - - - - - -

.

"I've got them!" Finch strode into the room with a small box of plastic packages. "Hopefully this will carry us through." Setting the box down, he picked up one of them. He carefully crushed and then shook it, handing the rapidly-cooling bag to Evey.

"Oh - thank you." She quickly wrapped it in a cloth and laid it over the pulse point at V's wrist. They had been fighting V's fever for nearly thirty-six hours now, these last several hours without benefit of ice. " I can't believe we used up all the ones here - where did you get these?"

"Dominic gets the credit, not me. He, ah... made a bit of a supply raid." His face colored a bit at the recollection of encouraging his partner to commit petty larceny.

"I see." Evey looked impressed - whether at him or Detective Stone, Finch couldn't say. Returning her attention to her patient, she busied herself with another cold pack. "I'll have to thank him. How were things out there?"

"Tense. Not as bad as they could be, but things are still simmering just under the surface."

"Mn." She stroked a cool cloth across V's brow. "His temperature's come down a bit, but he's still too hot." She sat back for a moment. "He once said to me, 'There is no certainty; only opportunity.' I hope we don't let him down."

They settled into a contemplative silence for several minutes. Evey busied herself with shifting pillows under V while Finch checked his stitches.

"They're looking better, finally." Finch cautiously replaced a gauze pad. "I just hope he wakes up soon. Unless you know how to do an IV drip?" He was only half-joking.

"No. I've had first aid classes, and there are books down here... but I've never..." She looked sadly at V's still form, eyeing the expanse of scar tissue. "I'm not even sure how we could go about it."

.

- - - - - - - - - -

.

_  
He was so close. More than once, now, he'd been able to make out fragments of her sentences._

_She was talking to someone. Not him... he couldn't tell whom. There was something he should have been able to remember, but couldn't. Not yet._

_The darkness was drifting near once more, and he forced himself to accept it._

_Soon._

.

- - - - - - - - - -

.

_  
--"You shielded your father and sacrificed Edmond Dantes, cast him into oblivion... pronounced him dead."_

_"I acted for the good of my country, at a time when such traitors as Dantes held the power to plunge us into anarchy!"--  
_

"I can see why you like this one."

_The Count of Monte Cristo_ was playing on a minidisc player in the background as Finch finished changing the dressings on a still-unconscious V's wounds.

He'd grown accustomed to this unusual living arrangement, even beginning to think of the labyrinthine Shadow Gallery as "normal". Being alone with V, however, still made him nervous. In spite of Evey's assurance that he was the only living person V had ever said he _liked_, Finch couldn't help but remain a bit dubious.

As he was cleaning up, Evey stepped in from her work in the kitchen. "I'm afraid we're running out of tinned tomatoes... ah, you found his favourite." She smiled as she recognized the climactic courtroom scene, settling in to sit where she could see the movie as well. They watched in companionable silence as justice was served in all its cinematic glory, resolving into its happy denouement.

_--"May we come up?"--_

Evey prepared, as she always did, to recite the words along with Dantes at the end... but she was pre-empted. From behind her came a voice - that voice she'd been awaiting all this time. It was faint, and roughened, and cracking from lack of use and dehydration. It was the most beautiful thing she'd ever heard in her entire life.

"_You find your own tree_."

.

- Finis -

.

.

(Author's Note: My AU differs from the novelization of the film in regards to Finch. Kindly move along, nothing to see here...)


	2. Chapter 2

II.

Evey whirled around at the sound of V's voice.

He was blinking slowly, staring up at the ceiling. She experienced a moment's disorientation upon seeing him, having irrationally expected the masked man in black to go with the voice and instead seeing the damaged stranger she'd been tending. Then he sighed, and the small sound re-established his identity for her, pulling her toward him.

"V?" She stopped just short of touching him, uncertain of the new boundaries his wakefulness might cause. His eyes - so unfamiliar, and yet exactly as she'd imagined - drifted toward her.

"Evey." She watched in fascination as she actually _saw_ him smile for the first time - a peaceful, happy shadow of the Fawkesian grin she'd known. "There you are. I found you..." His hand reached up to touch her.

But upon seeing his own bared arm as it rose into view before Evey, he froze. The smile that had just begun to receive an answering one from her was wiped away by shock, and he stiffened.

He was-

They had-

Evey's heart sank. She'd been dreading this, even as she'd prayed for this moment. "I'm sorry," Evey's hand moved to hover near his. "We had to get to your wounds, V. There was no other way." Her eyes looked apology at him, but not shame. Not regret. Nothing would have kept her from helping him.

V's eyes bored into hers with a briefly frightening intensity. She met them without flinching. Then, just as suddenly, his face closed off, losing all animation. "Yes," he sighed at last in defeat. "Yes... you're right, of course." He let his hand fall heavily back to the coverlet. When his eyes re-opened they were dulled and he would not look at her. The stranger had returned.

He didn't see her expression crumple, or the sudden shimmer of tears that threatened to overflow. He didn't see her mouth stammer, trying to form words in the wake of this rejection.

"I-" She cast about for something to say, or do - anything that would keep her held together for just a few more seconds while the floor dropped out from under her. She had initially thought of offering him water, but as her eyes flickered to the nightstand- "I forgot to bring the pitcher back in." She stood, scraping the chair back gracelessly and nearly upending it. "I'll go fetch it for you..." Her voice wavered into silence, and she blindly left the room.

Eric had remained silent during the exchange. He felt guilty for witnessing it, but couldn't help the surge of anger he felt at V. Evey had done everything - _everything_ - for V's sake. She'd been running on hope and adrenalin for the past week, living for the moment when V would awaken... and been met with this. It was the first time, through everything that had happened, that Finch actually saw her falter.

He watched as V raised a hand to his head and sighed, beginning to sit up. He wasn't sure if he'd even been noticed where he sat near the foot of the bed, and debated the wisdom of attracting attention to himself now. Then he thought of Evey, stumbling out of the room in despair, and the choice was clear.

The chair creaked as he rose, and for a brief moment he met the eyes of the man behind the mask for the first time. The two regarded one another in wary silence, and then Eric went to follow Evey.

.

Slowly, V worked his way to an upright position in the bed. Torn muscle tissue and bone-deep bruising shrieked in protest with every shift of his weight, and the weakness in his limbs told him his body had been without nourishment for some time. Looking down at himself, he saw wide swaths of bandages and medical tape. An inspection beneath a section of gauze revealed an amateur yet competent stitching job, the flesh it held healing well.

There was too much light in here... He could feel his skin crawling with the awareness of being uncovered... of being _seen_. His eyes cast about the room in an instinctive search... yes - _there_. A set of his clothing lay nearby, with a mask lying atop them. Even a wig-stand had been brought in with a carefully-combed wig perched upon it, and his boots stood sentinel on the floor below.

He _wanted_ them.

But even as his psyche yearned toward the trappings that had sheltered and defined him for so long, he knew the futility of it. He was in no condition to tolerate the restrictive clothing and besides, he could not undo what had been done. As much as he appreciated the gesture that had obviously been made, it was truly no more than that.

He had only himself to blame, of course. He created the situation when he chose to live beyond his purpose. He'd countered his own mandate of twenty years, and Evey had simply held true to her word. He had made a deal - and this was the consequence.

His head tipped wearily back to the headboard. He could hear Evey and Finch's muffled voices in the distance, but couldn't summon the energy to try listening. For the first time, he had no idea what he was going to do next. The thought was a curiously liberating one, and for a moment he allowed himself to indulge in the new sensation.

As his eyes aimlessly wandered, he began to take in the details of his surroundings. That he'd been brought into Evey's room could simply have been due to its relative proximity, but he wasn't certain. Adaptations had been made to make the space a base camp of sorts, he could see. Another chair had been brought in. A police scanner and laptop sat next to a security monitor in a nest of cable on the dresser. Boxes of gauze and disinfectant lay close at hand near a small stack of well-bookmarked medical texts.

Next to the bed on the floor he saw a pillow and rolled-up quilt. One of Evey's shirts lay folded next to them - indication of the bedroll's occupant, and a small testament to her devotion. A pang went through him. She'd slept here while they tended him. She'd brought everything she could into this room so she wouldn't have to leave it - leave _him_. No wonder he had so many memories of her voice in the darkness.

He had made his choice on the Underground platform suddenly, without reflection - the first such choice he could recall ever making. Until that one moment, looking into her eyes and hearing her galvanizing words, he had always anticipated - even embraced - his coming end. It was fitting; it was just. There was sorrow in it, certainly... but it was what he had earned, and all he could rightfully ask for.

Evey had changed all of that. If he were truthful with himself, she had begun to change it from the moment they met. She was of the world he was working to change, both its victim and its hope. She became its face, reminding him of the very real consequences of his vendetta. He couldn't help but fall hopelessly in love with her, even as he knew the impossibility of it.

But she had made it possible...

He couldn't deny the - he would say it - _rage_ he felt at being laid so bare like this, and yet... her expression had been no different than before when she looked at him. The reflection of himself in her eyes remained the same; to tell the truth, he hadn't even realized what had happened until he actually saw himself.

His vendetta was completed, his purpose fulfilled. He'd been meant to die but had not, and now had to rebuild himself yet again. That was the choice he had made.

The question now was, could he live with it?

.

"I owe her an apology."

This was the greeting Finch got when he re-entered the room with a tray from the kitchen.

V was propped up in the bed, his hands in his lap, head bowed. He looked up briefly at Finch's approach, then returned to his meditative pose.

Carefully Finch set the tray down on the nightstand. Despite the presence of any number of military-grade nutritional supplements among the Gallery's supplies, Evey had insisted on making beef tea for when V awoke. That and a pitcher of water were the offerings that Finch brought.

Finch glanced up from where he was pouring a small glass of water. He considered V briefly. "Yes," he dared. "You do."

V's smile was rueful as he accepted the glass. "Bravo, Mr. Finch. You're coming into your own at last."

Finch took that as an invitation to stay. He brought the chair Evey had vacated near the bed once more and settled into it, watching his "patient".

V simply looked into his glass for a time, studying the reflections within it.

"You really didn't plan for this, did you?" The question, dropped gently into the silence, snapped V's head around to face Eric. The question held no malice, though, and V's gaze dropped once again.

"No."

The two men sat for a while in pensive stillness.

At last V took a breath and looked up at the monitoring equipment flickering in the background. "What... day is it?" He frowned with some consternation that his normal sense of the passage of time was drawing a blank.

"It's November the twelfth."

V blinked, startled. "So long-?" A whole _week_ had passed? The thought was shocking, to have been removed from events for such an extended period of time. For a man accustomed as he was to steering events, it was unthinkable.

Finch gently retrieved the water glass, which had nearly slipped from V's hand. "Creedy and Sutler were found the morning of the fifth. The city nearly collapsed into rioting that day. Ev- Miss Hammond went up there dressed as you that night, to try to stop it."

"So that wasn't a dream."

Finch paused, impressed that V retained that memory. "No. And it actually worked, more or less. I've heard that some of the outlying areas are still in trouble, but it could have been a lot worse."

V studied his surroundings anew, his gaze alighting once more on the place where Evey had slept. An unfamiliar guilt washed over him as he considered her ordeal to keep her promise to him - _all_ her promises. He suddenly wanted to get up, go to her, _now_. He could have done it; he even found himself tensing to rise from the bed.

Finch's arm suddenly hove into view - cautiously if nominally barring his way. "Here - you've only just awakened, and you're off-balance. Let me bring her to you if she wants to talk."

V's jaw actually dropped as he heard Finch answer his thoughts.

The former inspector looked somewhat apologetic. "You don't have the mask being your poker face right now - It was easy enough seeing what you were thinking before you made to go tearing off." He shrugged. "Sorry."

V fought the resurgence of the sense of _wrongness_ his lack of covering was causing, admitting to himself that Finch was right. Although he knew he could manage to reach Evey, remaining upright and having a serious conversation with her in his current condition remained another matter altogether.

He had never thought to experience such helplessness ever again.

The sound of Finch clearing his throat softly brought him out of his spiraling thoughts. "You should try to eat, and get some rest. I told her the same thing," he added when he saw V begin to argue. "The bandages should be all right for a while yet - we only changed them a bit ago." Slowly he rose. "She _does_ want to see you, don't worry. You both just need a bit of time first." He turned to go.

"Mr. Finch-"

Finch turned back to look at him from the doorway.

"...Thank you."

.

He was asleep. This time, his unconsciousness was simple rest, and Evey could take comfort in it.

She had awakened several minutes ago, and was now paused a small distance from the bedroom door. She was anxious to talk to him in spite of her desire to make sure he regained his strength. In retrospect, she understood his reaction to his state and could forgive him. They were both in new territory now, and would have to find their footing with each other all over again.

The door was slightly ajar, but there was no light on. Torn between her desires and her concern for him, she wavered. She was just debating returning to the main room when his calm voice greeted her from within.

"Hello, Evey. You may come in, if you wish."

Caught, she finally moved forward, feeling the tiniest flicker of relieved amusement at this reminder of his occasionally-superhuman capacities.

She moved quietly into the darkened room, making out the darker shape of his outline where he sat up once more in the bed. She gave in to the urge to be near him again and sat on its edge. He stirred slightly, giving her room but not (she hoped) moving away from her.

"Shall I turn the light on?" she offered.

"Do you want to?"

She let out a soft frustrated laugh in the darkness. "We've been doing what _I_ want for a week now. What do _you_ want?"

"...I would like the light off, please."

The quiet request hung in the dimness between them. She took a moment to acknowledge the slight sting, and put it away again.

"How are you feeling?" Her hand briefly stirred as though to touch him, but she stilled it.

V reflected on the question, and all the possible answers he could give. He was in pain, and stiff, and weak from his injuries and inaction. He was tired. Vulnerable. Uncertain. He felt adrift, and alone - and yet...

Evey's softly humorous voice interrupted his musings. "I asked a complicated question, didn't I?"

A surprising burn of emotion surged into his throat at her insight, and the short huff of laughter that came forth was edged with hysteria. "I'm afraid so."

Evey heard the waver in his voice and ached for him.

"V, I-"

"-Evey-"

They both stopped. His deep breath calmed them both and then - amazingly - she felt his hand touch hers in the darkness.

He began again. "Forgive me. I-" He sighed, shaking his head to himself. "Mr. Finch was right. I didn't plan for this." There was a pause. "I'm sorry, Evey. I've been... coming to terms with my choices."

His words sent a twist of dread through her insides. "Do you-" She had to stop to regain control of her voice. "Do you regret them?" She promised, her mind chanted. She _promised_ him she would honor his wishes...

His hand, still touching hers, slid farther to enclose her fingers in his. "No. No, Evey. I meant what I said to you at the train."

She didn't realize just how much tension she'd been holding back until his answer tore a brief sob of relief from her. She found herself blessing the darkness that protected them both.

He saw the silhouette of her body bow forward as she fought not to weep. Her fingers clenched to hold his, and her every gasp was threatening to tear an answering one from him. Before he was even aware of his actions, he released her fingers and reached out, his hands finding her shoulders and pulling her toward him. Only when her slight weight sent a combined burst of agony and the most sublime comfort through him did he realize what he'd done.

Better.

Yes. This was better.

He heard the hitch in her breath and felt her try to ease her weight away from his injuries. His arms held her in place though, gently inexorable. As much as it hurt, this was what he wanted - _needed_ - right now.

She understood, and gingerly wrapped her arms around him. Despite the unfamiliar textures of bandages and damaged skin, despite the knowledge that she was causing him pain, her body was singing an affirmative. Her arms knew this distance around him; her back knew the placement of his hands; the crown of her head knew the gentle pressure of his cheek - soft this time, not the inflexible mask - resting upon it. This was V, here with her at last. She shuddered, and finally let the tears come.

How long they stayed like that, V didn't know. His world had been reduced to this one spot in the darkness - her weight upon him... her hands behind him... the sound of her shuddering breath, and the coolness of her tears on his skin... His hand found her shorn hair and stroked it softly, absently, the texture becoming a tactile mantra for him to anchor himself.

Nothing else mattered.

- _ Finis_ -


	3. Chapter 3

III.

Evey sighed and shifted, waking slowly. She'd slept longer than she'd expected; Eric must have decided to let her rest. She was hungry now... there were still leftovers from yesterday, she mused - she could have that, and then they'd need to change V's banda--

_V!_

The memory of his waking slammed into her at once and her eyes flew open in astonishment to meet his.

* * * * *

V was watching her from his side of the bed. Having awakened some time ago, he'd been studying her as she slept. In spite of his continued discomfort at being without his normal defenses, he couldn't deny that he wanted her near. Sheltered by the dimness around them he'd asked her, haltingly, to stay, and she'd just as hesitantly agreed. They'd shared this bed before, chastely, when he'd needed help battling his demons after her imprisonment. But even as vulnerable as he was then, she never truly saw him - his persona had still been intact. This was something different, deeper, and they both knew it.

After a small moment of awkwardness she'd settled next to him with her quilt, above the bedclothes. It was easy enough for both of them to say that it was to keep his still-healing wounds relatively safe, and not have to state aloud their mutual need for that scrap of separation.

This wasn't at all what he'd envisioned - how could it be? Only a very, very few times had he ever permitted himself the foolishness of selfish dreams... and in them, there had always been time. Time to explain, to prepare both her and himself... time that would let them set their own pace, and make their choices together. What had occurred instead was a complete mockery of those dreams, taking all semblance of control away from him and throwing them both into a twisted intimacy they couldn't possibly have anticipated.

Cynically, he reflected there was a certain bitter justice to it - after all, he'd already seen her stripped of everything, both inside and out. One couldn't do the things he'd done and not expect some sort of retribution.

Still, he wished...

Her movement pulled him away from those thoughts, and made him aware of just how fixedly he'd been staring at her. He should look away, close his eyes, give her _some_ privacy. But he found himself watching her every move, committing her small sigh to memory and aching just a little inside as he felt the mattress shift with her movement.

Her sudden gasp startled him, leaving them staring wide-eyed at one another in the faint light spilling in from the hallway. She blinked, her breath leaving her in a rush, and they just looked at one another for a moment.

Oh God, she hoped he didn't think she'd gasped because of _him_... not in that way.

But as she lay there, paralyzed by the renewed shock of remembering and the second-guessing voices in her mind, he reached for her. Slowly - so very slowly - his hand traversed the distance between them to land feather-light at her cheek.

Swallowing tears, she gently covered his hand with her own and attempted a smile.

"Good morning."

He managed an answer to her greeting with a quirk of his mouth. "It seems to be, so far."

It surprised a small laugh from her. There had been times when he'd delighted in making her laugh, so long ago. She reached out to him. "I missed you..."

V's eyes flickered at the motion of her hand but he didn't stop her, or try to move away. Very gently she lay the tips of her fingers at his temple in a brief caress. His eyes closed and a breath shuddered out of him at the contact. To touch his face like this, without the mask... she wanted to continue but could feel the tension thrumming all through him - he was letting her do this, but at a cost. With another sigh, she released him.

His own hand eased back to the bed between them and he lay quietly. His gaze was conflicted as it met hers.

Evey touched his fingers briefly in reassurance. "It's all right," she said to his expression, which only served to highlight the source of his consternation yet again. But she was already moving, sitting up and offering to help him do the same.

He leaned back with a preoccupied frown, looking once more to the mask and his clothing on the dresser. Evey followed his eyes to look as well, crestfallen when she understood the cause of his unease.

"'_There is a face beneath this mask, but it isn't me..._'" V heard her voice his words and looked back to her in faint surprise. She shook her head. "I didn't forget." Her eyes were sad. "I never forgot."

V sighed, shaking his head to himself. "You must understand, Evey: I have not been - have not _allowed_ myself to be as others are. My purpose required me to be the embodiment of an idea, first and foremost. Throughout history, we are told to remember the idea and not the man because a man can _fail_. He can be caught, he can be killed and forgotten. But years, even centuries later, an idea can still change the world." He looked at her, willing her to understand. "That has been the entirety of my existence, Evey. It was not until I met you that that began to change, and I had to _fight_ that change at every moment. And now..." he trailed off, at a loss.

She faced him, her legs tucked underneath her, weighing her response. She knew what he meant, and what all of this had cost him. Finally she dared to take his hands in hers and locked her eyes with his.

Her voice was low and calm, as soothing as it was insistent. "I have witnessed first-hand the power of ideas. I have seen people kill in the name of them, and die defending them. I have glimpsed what it means to hold that kind of power." She thought of her family. Of dear, gentle Gordon... of all the people gazing up to her from the streets below. Her hands squeezed his briefly and her expression softened. "But you cannot kiss an idea... you cannot touch it, or hold it." She looked at his wounds - the ones she and Eric had treated as best they could. "Ideas do not bleed. They do not feel pain... and they do not love."

His heart clenched at her gentle challenge. He did love her; he always had.

She moved closer, touching her forehead to his while a single tear tracked unheeded down his cheek.

"It is not an idea that I've missed - it is a man." She eased back to look at him once more, heart overflowing as she gazed on him. "It is not an idea that I love," she whispered. "I love _you_."

His breath caught on a sob, the movement lancing pain through his side. He had no words for this; no way of articulating - much less stopping - this wonderful, terrifying feeling. A feeling he didn't _have_ to fight, if he didn't want to.

She risked reaching out to him, and he didn't stop her. Carefully she inched closer, leaning into him, and he let her guide his head to the junction of her neck and shoulder. Her arms wound around to hold him closer, one hand cupping behind his head as her chin ducked toward him.

The contact was still shocking to him. Even now, despite his feelings and desires, he was trembling from the effort of not throwing off the arms surrounding him and seeking cover. But her hold was gentle, offering a cover of its own. He didn't have to fight it. He let himself listen to this new voice, gradually beginning to relax.

And just for a moment, he let himself dream.

.

~ _Finis_ ~

.

[Much paraphrasing from the film intro by the Wachowski brothers. My apologies to them, and a plea not to sue.]


	4. Chapter 4

"You're not serious." Eric was frowning in disbelief at the two of them. Their expressions looked remarkably similar at the moment, each looking back at him with an infuriating, almost feline calm. Even the tilt of their heads was almost identical. Finch was undeterred. "You said yourself, that bullet is practically on top of your femoral artery. You could bleed to death - we're too far away from anywhere that can help you in time."

"What better candidate than I to remove it, then?" V reasoned. "I daresay I've the most experience among all of us... and it's not as though I haven't had to do this before."

"Yes, but..." Finch paused slightly as that thought sank in, then shook clear of it. "You're talking about doing a delicate operation - on _yourself_ - with no anaesthetic, while you're still recovering from all the _other_ holes you've got in you..." he waved an exasperated hand at the impossibility of the situation.

"Eric." Evey rose from her seat on the bed and stepped over to him. "There's no other choice. He's bedridden until we get that bullet out, or it could shift and _definitely_ kill him. It's a wonder it didn't already when we went up to the roof," she looked guiltily back at V, "and I won't risk it now. You know there's nowhere we can go for help with this - even if we could manage to get safely aboveground while carrying V between us, you and I are both easily recognizable. There's no way we could gain admittance into a hospital. Even without the mask, it wouldn't take much for someone to recognize V too, and then what?" She placed her hand gently on his arm. "I don't like it either, Eric, but you heard him - he's done this before. I can't do it, and even if I trusted someone else to try, _he_ wouldn't. It's really the only way."

Finch looked past Evey to address the man watching them calmly from the bed. "And what if it doesn't work? What if you miss, and we can't stop the bleeding?"

V met his eyes squarely. "Then I will at least have chosen the manner of my death." A half-smile appeared, both whimsical and ironic. "Not everyone has such a luxury."

Evey's head bowed at those words, and it took Finch a moment to realize she was actually smiling at them.

He looked from her face to V's. "You're mad, both of you."

"'_A person needs a little madness,_'" came the reply, "'_or else they never dare cut the rope and be free._'"*

Finch's hand pulled downward over his features at that. He closed his eyes, mustering a final argument.

"You're _sure_ you can do this? You can tell exactly where the bullet is?"

"Yes." V's gaze went unfocused as he concentrated for a moment. Unerringly, he pointed to a spot a hand's length up from his right knee on his inner thigh, off to one side of the bullet's entry wound. "Here, about two centimetres in."

Finch stared, surprised and a little unsettled. "I'm not sure I want to know how you can do that."

Evey looked up at him. "Will you help, Eric?" She was serious once more, honest worry in her voice. "Our chances are best if we're all here."

"...Fine," came the resigned sigh. "Just at least let me fetch a tourniquet before you start."

It was only a matter of minutes to actually extract the bullet, but every second stretched out in Evey's mind like hours. She forced herself to watch the blade slicing into V's flesh, tried not to panic as the blood welled. It was no easier to watch now than the last time they'd had to do this, especially knowing that V was now lucid and doing it to _himself_. Despite the efficiency of his movements, he hadn't been able to prevent a brief grunt of pain as he widened the wound, and she'd flinched in sympathy. She didn't want to think about how many times he'd had to do this before, to give him such a practiced ease with it. Only the worry that she had to be ready in case something went wrong kept her from clenching her eyes shut from the sight of this deliberate but necessary self-mutilation.

At last the offending blob of metal _tunk_ed into a tray, and she could breathe again. A brief surge of dizziness rolled through her at the release, bringing with it a sudden shiver. V looked over to her in the midst of dressing the wound, sparing her a reassuring nod. "Nearly there now."

She handed him another gauze pad. "Isn't that what I'm supposed to be saying to you?"

He gave her a somewhat stiff half-shrug and a brief sideward smile. "You've been busy."

One other bullet and two fragments remained, but Evey insisted they wait. Fatigue and pain had dulled V's usual grace, and despite his impressive performance removing the most dangerous of the metal pieces still within him, he was starting to chafe under Finch's and her well-intentioned hovering. Now that she knew what to look for, she could easily see his discomfort at having to sit in the light, under such scrutiny. It went deeper than mere modesty, she knew - deeper even than being revealed as a mortal man rather than an invincible idea. This was something that had been born in the hell that was Larkhill, and no amount of reassurance or logic was going to defuse it right now. The only thing to do was step back and let him collect himself again.

They made sure V's bleeding was indeed under control, helped him re-position himself to rest, and put the security controls and the laptop within his reach before retreating back out to the Shadow Gallery. Evey suspected the bulk of V's "rest" would consist of investigating the goings-on in London above them. Regardless of the feeling of limbo the Shadow Gallery sometimes inspired, the world still moved around them - now more than ever.

Wearily the two of them passed near the kitchen. Evey ran a hand over her short-cropped hair and looked over at Eric. "I think I could use some tea. Shall I get a cup for you?"

"Sure." His tone was distracted as he looked around the large room with the piano commanding the center. "You know… I just figured something out."

"Yeah?"

"We'd always thought that you'd been working with V from early on. But V… he's always been alone, hasn't he?"

"…until he brought me here, yes."

Finch nodded to himself. "Ever since I got here, I noticed how awkward it is to just sit somewhere and talk - it's because the furniture is only set up for one person to use it. There's nowhere designed for conversation."

Evey laughed in surprise at the odd thought, glad for the release it offered. "You're right… I'd never made that connection." She looked anew at their surroundings. "If we sat and talked we were almost always in the kitchen or on the sofa with the telly. I just took it for granted." Her mirth faded into a thoughtful silence, and she continued into the kitchen.

Their cups of tea consumed, Evey and Finch sat absorbed in their own thoughts.

"You okay?" Finch was studying Evey's distracted posture.

"What? Oh... yeah. Just... thinking."

"What about?"

She scoffed to herself. "Only everything."

Finch grunted assent. "I know what you mean." He paused for a moment, puzzling over this woman having tea with him in a subterranean treasure trove of outlawed human culture as though it were perfectly natural. Before all of this, he'd have jumped at the chance to ask all the questions that had kept him awake through his investigations, to say nothing of the new ones this place had inspired. He'd have latched on relentlessly in order to finally have answers, test his theories. Now, though, having seen and done the things he had, it just seemed... _wrong_ to ask. He wasn't the Chief Inspector anymore - not here, at least - and she wasn't the terrorist's accomplice. An odd sort of truce was in place between them, although it couldn't exactly be called "friendship" just yet. But his earlier insight about V's solitude was prodding his curiosity back to the fore. It was only natural, really, but he needed to choose his words with care. "How--" Finch stopped himself, tried again. "How did you and V--?"

Evey glanced at him and her lips curved upward. "How did we meet?" She looked into her empty cup and her focus went far away. "It sounds so... ordinary, doesn't it?" She sat back in her chair. "The night of November the fourth I was out after curfew. I'd been invited to a dinner I couldn't refuse, and lost track of time getting ready. I ran into some Fingermen when I tried to sneak into an alley."

Finch's eyebrows rose at her reason for being out, but he didn't push the issue. So that night when the Old Bailey went up was the beginning for her, too? God, he'd been so wrong, assuming what he had. He remembered seeing the surveillance photos of V and her, and reading the reports - he'd felt none too sympathetic toward the men involved, regardless of the crimes V had committed. He knew full well how they exercised their "jurisdiction" with curfew violators, and how Creedy had encouraged it. "V... found you?"

"He rescued me." Her expression darkened. "They had my arms pinned behind my back and a riot baton in my face. One of them had got his fly undone when V turned the corner to where we were, quoting Shakespeare the whole time." She looked down, smiling faintly in reflection. "He scared me silly."

It was Finch's turn to sit back. "So he just met you by chance, then?"

"Mm." She nodded. "Though he's fond of saying he doesn't believe in coincidence."

She missed the startled glance Finch gave her.

The next morning Evey found V sitting on the far edge of the bed, half-dressed. He heard her surprised intake of breath and approaching footsteps, and ignored them. He couldn't wait any longer - he _had_ to get up and move around, regardless of what it might do to his wounds; nearly two weeks of inactivity were quite enough. He had managed to dress from the waist down minus his boots, and had just finished a slow struggle into the form-fitting undershirt by the time Evey reached his side. Carefully, he reached down and finished attaching the hem of it to the inside of the trousers' waistband, fastening the garment securely in place.

He looked up and they regarded one another for a long, silent moment. As he watched her, waiting for her to speak, something flickered briefly in Evey's eyes. Then she smiled all of a sudden, surprising him.

"I wondered when you would get up. To be honest, I was starting to get worried."

He chuckled a bit self-consciously. The truth was, he still harbored doubts as to his place in this new world and his forced inaction had only served to amplify them. He was accustomed to being driven toward a goal - _needed_ it. Now, with his vendetta fulfilled, he had to find a new means of driving himself... even if it began with something as basic as regaining his feet. And he had to admit, even the simple act of donning his own clothing again was having a marked effect on his sense of well-being. On the one hand, it was purely superficial; years of routine and habit worn smooth by repetition and only remarkable in their absence. On the other, it marked the beginning of whatever his life was to be now.

Beside him Evey knelt, reaching for his boots. Though she still worried for him, she knew better than to treat him as an invalid. V's mere survival was reinforcement enough of the fact that he was no ordinary man, regardless of his currently weakened state. He knew his limits, and she trusted him to take heed of them - which left her the simple choice between letting him do everything himself, or offering to assist. If he _was_ going to do this, she decided, then she may as well help him - at least some of his stitches might remain intact that way, she reasoned with wry amusement. Between the two of them the left boot went on and then, much more slowly, the right. That task completed, she stood once more, waiting to see if he needed help standing.

Slowly, V leaned forward to rise from the bed. As he shifted his weight to rise, he did indeed reach out a hand to Evey's shoulder in order to steady himself. She in turn stepped closer, her hands automatically going to his waist. He wavered slightly, not from the pain that shot up his leg, but at the sensation of Evey's hands sliding over the smooth fabric of his undershirt. They were suddenly standing _very_ close, V realized, and he found himself falling victim to an unaccustomed awkwardness. The normal chill of the stone chambers around them was being replaced by a warmth that had very little to do with the insulated clothing he was wearing. She was looking up at him with an unreadable expression, and he became extremely aware of the continued lack of a mask between himself and her.

Evey watched his expression shift at the contact between them. His eyes had widened, as had their pupils, and he looked as though he'd been about to say something but had had the words wiped away before he could utter them. He looked caught... and uncertain. Much the same way she was feeling. The last time they had stood so closely, he was leaving for what he thought was his death and she knew that she might never see him again. That was a lifetime ago - now, all the rules had changed.

She broke eye contact with him in order to gather her thoughts once again, and was reminded that his ensemble was still only partially completed. She used the need to fetch his doublet on the dresser as a way to let him regain his equilibrium - and an excuse to step away and steady her own breathing a bit.

The doublet was heavy in her hands, looking so very empty as it sagged over her fingers. She remembered wearing a similar one, feeling its weight on her shoulders as she stood alone in the cold November wind. But this one... this one would go where it was meant to be. That thought thrilled her more than she would have thought possible, and she turned back to him with that feeling shining clearly in her eyes.

V watched as she approached, holding the doublet open for him rather than handing it to him entirely. With a strange sort of thrill he put his arm through the sleeve while Evey drew it up to his shoulder. Her hands ghosted lightly across his back and briefly brushed his elbow to bring the other sleeve into reach. The contact was incidental, but it was setting his heart to racing. He'd never before given much thought to the task of dressing, beyond the technical niceties and the need to uphold his own standards of appearance. Now, with Evey witnessing and aiding in the process, he was learning the startling intimacy of it that was possible.

She had moved around to his front once more and was glancing over the lay of the shoulder seams to ensure they were straight. Small fingers gave a gentle tug to the left side of the front to pull it into place, sending a shiver through him. She said nothing, not even looking up, but he could see a slow blush coloring her cheeks. It drew an answering one from him as well, though she couldn't see it. An offending bit of lint was brushed away and she was done, her hands stroking once down his arms in farewell.

It was more due to muscle memory than any coherent awareness in that moment that his fingers moved to fasten the doublet closed. His eyes never left hers. He was dimly aware of his injuries' protest against the layers of fitted clothing, but the memory of her touch upon him far outweighed any discomfort.

With difficulty, he tore his gaze from her long enough to retrieve the wig waiting patiently upon its stand. Somewhat hesitantly he lifted it into place, distinctly aware of her eyes upon him. His hands were beginning to straighten the strands – an effort made slightly more difficult for lack of being in front of the mirror – when he caught sight of Evey's movement next to him. Her own hands half-raised toward his head, silently asking his permission to continue. After a stunned moment of meeting her shyly earnest expression, V caught his breath and let his arms fall to his sides, leaning down a bit toward her.

Gratefully she reached up, starting at the back of the wig to comb it into place with her fingers. The motion brought her face close to his and it took a supreme effort on her part to remain focused on her task. As she continued his posture began to relax, his eyes drifting closed. Her hands smoothing over his head made short work of straightening the wig but she continued, marveling at being able to _touch_ him. Up until now through his recovery he'd discouraged it, tensing at nearly any approach. This was different, now that he was returning to himself; he had regained control, and could therefore relinquish it as he chose rather than as circumstances dictated. The fact that he _was_ doing so, even leaning into the contact, was closing a velvet fist around her heart and making it difficult to breathe evenly. Stroking gently over his head, abandoning the illusion that she was merely tending to his appearance, her hands endeavored to express what her voice could not. In response he sighed, his breath fluttering over the slope of her neck and nearly sending her to her knees.

V suddenly felt her hands slide beneath the wig to wrap around his head. The sensation was as exquisite as it was unexpected, and his eyes flew open. He had allowed himself to be lulled by the gentle rhythmic paths her hands made, even welcoming her proximity to him. This new touch, though, heralded something different. There was intent behind the gentleness, and an expectation in the air between them that sent his thoughts flying into an impossible tangle as their eyes met. So mesmerized was he by her heated gaze on him that it took a fraction of a second to register the sensation of her lips closing softly over his.

She hadn't been able to resist. When his eyes met hers, clouded by desire and yet so uncertain all at once, she'd had to kiss him. Even if it was the last time she ever touched him – she _had_ to do this now. He'd made a brief "Mh!" of surprise but didn't move away, much to her relieved delight. With the ebony fall of the wig spilling through her fingers she gently cradled his face and lost herself to the indulgence of kissing him at last.

…_soft_… That was the only word his mind would supply. Her hands slipping behind his head once more… her breath on his cheek… her lips caressing his… it was drowning him, and a part of him was more than happy to let it. His entire existence had been spent isolating himself from physical contact, first to recover from Larkhill's horrors and later as a means of focus when his vendetta came into being. He was no stranger to the desire for it, certainly - but he'd relegated it to the abstract, housed safely in the works of artists and poets long-dead. This was immediate, and visceral, and all too real... _marvelously_ real. He would never have imagined that the sensation of her mouth closing gently over his lower lip could twist through him with such heat, or that the tiny sound she made at the back of her throat could draw him irresistibly forward to envelop her waist in his hands, but it did. She was kissing him, and he was letting her, and it was... wonderful.

Her fingers caressed along his temple and down the side of his face, her lips capturing his again and again to coax his mouth into dancing with hers. Far beyond words, she was telling him everything she was feeling in this moment, every touch of her mouth on his a homecoming and a benediction. With infinite gentleness her lips feathered over his, concentrating every nerve ending in his body on that one point between them.

Without warning it began overwhelming him, even as he wanted it to continue. Completely unprepared for the reactions such a delicate assault was calling forth in him, he was in sensory overload. He had no frame of reference for this - no defense against the myriad of impulses bombarding his awareness. His hands stiffened trying not to clamp down at her waist, and his breathing had shortened into small, shaking gasps. _Too much_...

She sensed his distress and slowed, gradually ending the kiss. With one final brush of her lips to his she reluctantly drew back, looking up into eyes that reflected want and hesitancy in equal parts. It was nothing short of a miracle, she considered, that he'd allowed things to go as far as they had. Seeking to reassure, she offered a small smile and reached up to run her hands once more over his head once, twice.

He closed his eyes and the tension that had been coiling ever tighter left him in one long, shuddering breath. His forehead dipped to hers and for a long moment they simply stood, breathing together. He had effectively entrusted himself into her keeping since that night of the Fourth. She had upheld that trust - stepped forward to claim his legacy to her, fought for his life every bit as much as he had - and now she had shown him she accepted the idea of V as well as the man with her efforts. It touched and humbled him as nothing else could have done.

His equilibrium recovered, V leaned back enough to search her expression. It was calm, and open - accepting him and this moment for what they were. His still-ungloved hand reached up to her cheek as the emotions welled up within him. Before he could second-guess himself, he gently took her face in his hands and leaned forward, bestowing a single kiss of his own.

_"Thank you."_ The words drifted across her cheek... the only words that could encompass all that had passed between them.

With one last, lingering caress to her face, he turned to retrieve his gauntlets from where they awaited him on the dresser. They slid into place as they always had, leaving only one last step in the process.

They both looked to the mask, smiling to itself where it lay alone beside the empty wig-stand. V couldn't deny the compulsion that drew him to it, that called to him to secure it over his own features. But that demand was tempered by the knowledge of his new standing - whatever that might yet be - in the world, and by the understanding that part of the need for this persona, at least, no longer existed. He stood, lost in thought for a moment, and it was Evey who finally moved to take it up, looking into its eyes as she did so.

The edges of its cool weight pressed into her palms, the lifelessness of the material countered by the finely expressive features. This had been V's face to her for a year - the only face she'd known. Even now, looking down on it, she could feel the familiar tug of the conflicting emotions it - _he_ - had inspired within her in all that time. This was as much a part of him as anything else, whether it be within him, his actions, or even the Shadow Gallery itself. It _was_ him, and was not, just like everything else.

Carefully she handed it to him, meeting his questioning gaze with equanimity. As she watched, he lifted it to his face, expertly tightening the straps behind his head. She moved clear so he could check his reflection in the mirror, watching as the bangs of the wig were set to order over the top of the mask's edge. Then he reached for the comb that lay nearby and, to her surprise, turned and offered it to her. She took it with a steady hand, proud that she'd managed to control the lump in her throat that his simple action had caused, and dispensed with any tangles in the wig with perfect efficiency. All was in place; they were ready.

V straightened as she replaced the comb on the dresser, turning to take her hands in his for a moment. "Shall we?" He tilted his head in the way she'd so missed.

She swallowed, smiling with eyes that didn't quite overflow. "Absolutely."

He nodded once in satisfaction, keeping one of her hands in his, then began making his way out of the room. He was limping, and moving more slowly than his wont, but he moved under his own power, and that was enough.

_~ Finis ~_

*Quote by Nikos Kazantzakis


End file.
